Triangle
by Ambrel
Summary: The beating was endured, this time through his own stubborn will. He looked around and found that no other prisoner could meet his gaze, but he wasn’t angry. Only disappointed.
1. Prison Cell

**Prison Cell**

_A hungry feelin' came o'er me stealin'  
And the mice were squealin' in my prison cell_

The harsh clatter-clang of the wakeup call shattered his sleep. Even though he'd not been able to get much sleep, it was still jarring and unnatural to be brought to such abrupt awareness.

"It takes a while to get used to that," the old timer in the next cell sighed. Aerrow frowned, holding the bridge of his nose against the wave of exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, unable to answer quite yet.

The old man pulled his shirt over his scarred hide. "That's how they wake us in the morning, ye see," he explained, "They don't like us to get too much sleep. Keeps us off balance of something like that."

Aerrow pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the feeling of revulsion as tiny vermin scattered at his movement. "What are they afraid of?"

"What is anyone afraid of in a prison?" The talkative greybeard replied with a shrug, "mutiny. Rebellion. Something like that."

The red headed man couldn't find it in himself to answer that. Of course the idea of a revolt had crossed his mind at his capture and incarceration, but in the ensuing days he'd been so deprived of energy and rest, let alone food…

…it was almost not worth it.

Instead, he changed the subject. "I'm Aerrow."

The man nodded, his roughly whiskered face creasing as he held a smile back. "I know, son. We all know."

Aerrow sighed. He looked at his hands and the wounds that decorated his skin.

"You didn't go easily, did ye boy?"

"I like to think not." He replied with a hint of a grimace. "I took some with me, I know."

Wood creaked, then feet patted on the ground. "Well, at least there's that."

Silence reigned after that.

The sky knight had nothing to fill his time but muse over the events of the past week, though thinking about it was painful. He couldn't remember much beyond the chaos of the fighting, but he knew that no one had made it out of there with their freedom. They'd all given themselves over to the fight, but in the end, sheer numbers had overwhelmed the Storm Hawks.

He could see each member of his crew in the last moment he'd set his eyes on them. Piper, being dragged by two large Cyclonians. Junko, subdued by a wiry soldier pressing cloth soaked in something noxious over his nose and mouth. Finn was shackled and bent half double, his crossbow kicked across the room. Stork was unconscious, a disturbingly dark puddle beginning at his temple.

Radarr…

He forced his mind away. There would be time to mourn later.

Aerrow started. He heard heavy footsteps thud down the strangely silent corridor.

"Who's that?" he asked his incidental friend, who shook his head.

"The warden, I reckon." The old man sighed.

_And the auld triangle went jingle jangle,  
All along the banks of the Royal Canal._


	2. Metal

**Metal**

_To begin the morning the warden bawling,  
"Get up from yer beds and clean up your cell!"_

His days were filled with metal. Brass on steel woke him each day. The scratch of steel toes on stone pervaded each hour, followed by the rusty sound of the warden's voice.

"Wake up, ye layabouts. Time fer breakfast, ye bastards."

The food tasted like copper and salt.

His nights were filled with silver memories, interspersed with the disappointing tang of reality.

As the days went by, it was apparent that there would be no prison break. No rescue. No escape.

Only the same thing, day after day. Hard labor, bad food, and the constant worry of what had happened to the friends who were his family.

"You were the last one, you know," his talkative neighbor told him once, "and well, at least you held out as long as ye did."

Platitudes didn't help.

"It wasn't enough."

The old man sat on his cot, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was getting on in years, but Aerrow was hard pressed to place his age. Over sixty, easily. Far too old to endure this life for too long.

"You never told me your name."

Faded blue eyes that still had a faint twinkle of mirth glanced at him between the bars. "Aye, yer right. I didn't."

If there was one thing that he'd learned in his weeks in this place, it was when to let something be.

The old man settled against his creaking cot.

Heavy boot steps thumped down the hall. He was used to it now, used to the words that he knew were coming. "Clean up yer cells, ya dirty wretches. It reeks. Do ye like living in filth?"

Steel toes clatter-clacked on rough stone. Iron bars rattled when the warden slapped his shillelagh against the cells. All the way down the row, he could hear the inmates moving to straighten their meager living quarters in a futile attempt to avoid a beating.

The old man moved as though his joints were wooden. Aerrow, used to the routine, was neat by nature. That didn't stop the warden from stopping at his cell every day at this time.

Aerrow was still hated by the Cyclonians, enough that the more petty of the bunch would seek him out to vent their sick violence upon his back.

He endured the beatings stoically, refusing to let them have the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Some may have called him strong, prideful, or stubborn. But he knew that it was now a game with the guards. They took bets on who would break him and he didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

And he knew that if they tired of him, they'd go back to hurting those who were less able to endure.

He kept those faded blue eyes fixed in his mind when the beatings came.

_And the auld triangle went jingle jangle,  
All along the banks of the Royal Canal._


	3. Sometime

**Sometime**

_The guard was peepin' and the gussie was sleepin'  
As I lay there dreamin' of my girl, Sal_

He didn't know what woke him up that night. It was still dark and the warden was nowhere to be seen.

A sigh caught his attention and the old man moved in the next cell. It wasn't much, just a shift in his weight, but Aerrow could tell that he was awake.

"Are you alright, sir?"

There was a loaded silence before he heard the man's wry voice. "As all as I can be, lad."

Aerrow sat back and crossed his hands behind his head. "You're lying to me, aren't you?"

"Shh…" the old man replied softly. "It matters n'ere much. Whats botherin' me can't be helped, lad." He sniffed quietly, failing to hide the emotion in his words.

It was hard, but Aerrow managed to keep himself from prying. Around here, where one had so little in the way of personal identity, it just wasn't right to force an issue like that.

But because he couldn't pry, it didn't mean he couldn't talk about himself. So he told the old man about his friends.

"Aye, a strong man and the eagle-eye," the grandfather rasped. "Fine friends, it seems. I bet they fought with each other as much as the enemy. Just like my-ehem."

"Better friends, I'll never find." Aerrow agreed. The man seemed to have composed himself a little more.

"And yer green friend. Strong an' true, it sounds. The wee blue one. Steadfast."

"Yeah…"

Heavy quiet descended as the gloom began to lighten around them. Soon, the shattering clang would herald the morning rounds.

"The girl…"

Aerrow turned his head. The man's scratchy, whiskery face was regarding him seriously. Though nothing was said, there was a strange sort of exchange right then. Despite himself, Aerrow glanced away from the depth of sorrow that was in that man's watery eyes.

He swallowed.

There was a kind of strength there, nestled tightly within his gaze along with the quiet humor that should have died a long time ago.

The spell was broken though, when the man coughed and changed the subject. "We all get out of here sometime, you know."

"Not me, sir."

A raspy chuckled escaped the man. "If that's what you think, then perhaps not. But I think I know better."

"Oh?"

"My girl got out of here long ago, me lad. I know she did, because they told me the day she escaped."

"She left you here?"

He nodded. "Aye, she left me here. A long time ago. I was angry, back then. So angry."

"Why didn't she come for you?"

More light crept in as the old man thought of his answer. "Methinks she couldn't find me, lad."

"Oh…"

"But ye see, I'm going to find her. I know she's still waiting for me."

"Long time to wait."

The old man just nodded.

_And the auld triangle went jingle jangle,  
All along the banks of the Royal Canal._


	4. The Last

**The Last**

_Up in the female prison there are seventy-five women  
And tis among them I wish I did dwell_

He didn't expect to fall asleep, but the harsh call of the metal ring startled him from his bed. Looking around, he could see the old man curled up on his cot.

"Hey. Sir, you need to wake up."

The man didn't stir, so Aerrow passed his hand through the bars to shake him gently. There was no reaction, no movement. His grey head turned ever so slightly, and there was an expression of such quiet and calm that it took the sky knight by surprise.

Aerrow pulled his hand away from the man's cool skin as he heard the thump of steel toed boots begin their journey down the hall, followed by those familiar words. "Time fer breakfast, ye bastards, wake up ye layabouts."

Thunk-thud. Thunk-thud. The shillelagh rang woodenly on the bars.

The salty gruel was hard to choke down and the gritty water slid down his throat like mud.

He watched them carry the old man out of his cell without so much as a prayer or an ounce of respect that the dead should be accorded.

The beating was endured, this time through his own stubborn will. He looked around and found that no other prisoner could meet his gaze, but he wasn't angry. Only disappointed.

He knelt on the floor afterward, feeling the pressure of the ashamed stares coupled with palpable silence.

That silence endured for a long time.

Night fell. Day broke.

The next day carried itself out like that last, as did the day after that.

"We all get out of here sometime," he whispered to himself. _Somehow…_

At night, he found himself standing at the bars, staring into the dim corridor. Most of the cells were filled and of those, all of the occupants were listless and tired.

Faces flashed through his mind. His squad. His friends. The people he's sworn to protect.

He looked down at his dirty, thin hands. He stared at the tiny cell in which he'd resigned his existence.

A four by six square encased by bars.

He shook his head.

The day broke. The beating passed.

Night found him at his bars again. This time, instead of standing and staring without a word, he called out softly.

"We all get out of here sometime."

There was no reaction for quite some time. A good ten minutes must have passed before he detected a movement several cells down.

"Aerrow." The voice was matter-of-fact. "You were the last."

"Yes." He replied, his voice carrying with a purpose. "I was the last."

"And now?"

_And now?_

The darkened passageway took on a new quality, as though everyone was waiting for his words. He considered carefully what he was going to say.

"I cannot accept this. I cannot wait for…anything. I will not be the last anymore."

_And the auld triangle could go jingle jangle,  
All along the banks of the Royal Canal._

* * *

Author's Note – This fic is strange, I know. It is simply a vignette that came to me, and I'm not even sure I like how it went. The song used as inspiration is _The Auld Triangle_ as performed by The High Kings. Do yourself a favor and look it up on Youtube. It fits with the fic rather well, I think.

I hope everyone enjoyed. Please let me know what you think.

-Ambrel


End file.
